


Self-Portrait with Thorns and Hummingbird

by ElizColl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Art, Bisexuality, F/F, Fashion Designer Pansy Parkinson, International Witches Day 2021, Museums, POV Pansy Parkinson, Self-Discovery, Tate Modern, contains images of some of Kahlo's nude paintings which may be NSFW, potential trigger: Kahlo's painting of her miscarriage is shown and discussed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29686146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizColl/pseuds/ElizColl
Summary: In the years after the war, Pansy Parkinson realizes her parents’ path for her may no longer be what she wants in life. In a museum, Pansy meets Frida Kahlo, who lives on in her self-portraits across the world. As Pansy goes on a journey of self-discovery through her twenties, Frida provides insights from her own colorful, and often anguished, life.
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5
Collections: International Witches Day





	1. The Tate

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [International_Witches_Day](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/International_Witches_Day) collection. 



> This piece was written for International Witches’ Day 2021, celebrating witches of all races, genders, and magical abilities! IWD stories are prompted by influential activists for women’s rights or organizations that support and empower women. As a former art history major in undergrad, I chose the prompt Frida Kahlo. She was a politically active Mexican Modernist artist who lived in the first half of the 20th century. 
> 
> For the purposes of this story, we’re going to pretend Kahlo's ‘Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird’ lives at the Tate Modern museum in London, and not at the University of Texas in Austin. Got it? Let’s jump in!

Frida Kahlo, 1907 - 1954 

_Frida, Pink/Green Blouse, Coyoacan,_ 1938.  
Photograph by Nickolas Muray.  
Color carbon pigment print on paper. Jepson Center, Telfair Museums. Savannah, Georgia.

# Chapter 1. The Tate

I first met Frida Kahlo when I was 23.

I found solace at the Tate Modern during the years after the war, though it took me five years of visiting the museum before I met her. I imagine you're wondering, "Why would Pansy Parkinson spend time in a Muggle art museum?"

Funny story, that. Well, really, it's rather tragic, but I prefer to reflect with humor because it's easier than acknowledging how horrible things really were. Daphne, who was my best friend at the time, convinced me to check out a new pub in Diagon Alley with her one night, the summer after our eighth year at Hogwarts. It was a testament to our friendship that Daphne was willing to be seen out in public with me; I was the subject of a lot of slurs and glares back then.

At some point in the evening, when I was high on potions and had consumed way too many cocktails, I ended up in a conversation with Hermione Granger. I don't remember much of it; I had to rely on Daphne's memory to put the pieces together for me when Granger's owl visited me the next day, inviting me to the Tate. Apparently, I had divulged an uncomfortable amount of information to her about my terrible family life.

In hindsight, I realize Granger was interested in me. Me! Pansy Parkinson! But at the time, I didn't know. I wasn't open to the thought or even the possibility of a woman being interested in me; same-sex relationships weren't an option in traditional Pure-blood culture and hadn't even crossed my mind at that point in my life. Honestly, I'm glad I didn't know; if I'd realized Granger's interest, I'd have clung to her like a barnacle on a lifeboat—a relationship with the Golden Girl would have instantly improved my self-esteem and my pitiful reputation—and I wouldn't be with the true love of my life now, a decade later.

Regardless, I went with Granger to the Tate that weekend, and it was astounding. So many women artists. So many self-portraits. Men depicted subjects. Women depicted themselves. Their suffering. Their perceptions. Their fight against patriarchy. All of it. They painted all of it. And it spoke to me. These women felt confused, angry, happy, sad, taken advantage of, powerful, sometimes all of these at once—just like me.

Granger asked me out a few more times, but I didn't understand that she was asking me out. I was hurt when she stopped reaching out to me, thinking my background had alienated another potential friend. She's with a French professor now. They live in London and her wife floos to Beauxbatons every day. But, I'm digressing.

After Granger took me to the Tate, I was hooked. I never imagined Muggle art, its subjects still and unmoving in their frames, could be so, well, _moving_. Moving to my soul.

I visited the Tate monthly in the beginning, when we were barely out of Hogwarts and I was still a pariah—the girl who'd tried to turn Harry Potter over to Voldemort. The Tate and its paintings gave me a solace I had never experienced.

My parents had raised me with the understanding that I would be married off to a Pure-blood wizard in my early twenties, likely through an arranged marriage. Then, once I had children, I would quit the workforce and spend my time raising babies and making appearances at social events.

I hadn't questioned this path until after the war. After the war, I questioned everything.

I begged my parents not to send me back to Hogwarts for our eighth year, knowing I, and many of my housemates, would be reviled by the rest of the school. I spent much of the year high on potions and binge drinking to escape from it all.

Somehow, seeing the self-portraits of Muggle women artists through the ages made me feel not so alone. Like I was part of a sisterhood of women who had struggled through history; and, somehow, through their artwork, they had found a release from their chains. Even if only in their art.

Some of the pieces that moved me the most during that first summer were _Performance Still,_ 1985, by Mona Hatoum; _Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird,_ 1940, by Frida Kahlo; and _Untitled - Self-Portrait with Blood,_ 1973, by Ana Mendieta.

This last one, in particular, spoke to me. Daphne thought it was gruesome—I brought her with me a few times—but, to me, it was an accurate depiction of my mental state: bloodied and dazed from being on the wrong side of the war and using potions and alcohol to cope. I also saw it as a message that perhaps, if I was strong enough, I could create a better path for myself. Mendieta turned her pain into art. Maybe I could turn mine into something beautiful, too.

_Untitled (Self-Portrait with Blood),_ 1973\. Ana Mendieta.  
Photograph, color on paper. Tate Modern. London.

_Performance Still,_ 1985, 1995. Mona Hatoum.  
Photograph, gelatin silver print on paper, mounted on aluminum. Tate Modern. London.

My visits to the Tate became less frequent as I started working as an apprentice to Madame Malkin. I loved designing new fashions, and Madame Malkin was happy for me to bring Muggle trends into wizarding clothing; she said my designs lent a "breath of fresh air" to her styles. I lapped up her praise and threw myself into my work. The horrors of the war receded a bit, obscured by a growing sense of, if not happiness, then at least, satisfaction with my life.

Then it happened. Mother and Father had been badgering me to find a Pure-blood man to marry, with the unspoken understanding that if I didn't, they would. I went on some dates, with both Pure-blood and Half-blood wizards, but the only one I ever really liked was a Half-blood, and I knew my parents would never approve. I broke it off after six months. The rest of them never came close to how much I enjoyed my time with Daphne, who was both my best friend and flatmate. She understood me better than anyone, oftentimes better than myself.

On my 23rd birthday, Mother and Father gave me an ultimatum: become engaged to a Pure-blood wizard of my choosing before my 24th birthday, or they would marry me off to the son of one of Father's business associates, a French wizard named Jean-Paul Beauvais. I spent the night in tears, called in sick to work the next day, and went to the Tate as soon as it opened.

I sat in front of Frida Kahlo's self-portrait, staring at the thorns encircling her neck. Beautiful butterflies and dragonflies sat around her head, but the thorn necklace drew blood, sending it dripping down her skin, and the hummingbird sat there, black, still, and lifeless against her chest. It felt like she knew what I was going through; she was surrounded by beauty but yet bleeding and lifeless.

I don't know how long I stared at her portrait, but when I started silently crying, she spoke to me. I was startled, shocked—I looked around to see if anyone else in the gallery had heard her, but they were carrying on like normal.

"Are you talking to me?" I asked.

"I am," she replied, her voice solemn and steady.

I noticed the monkey was moving, playing with the thorn necklace and making it pierce her skin harder; her blood was now beginning to stain her shirt, while the black cat prowled around the picture frame.

"Come," Frida said, "I have things to show you."

_Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird,_ 1940\. Frida Kahlo.  
Oil on canvas mounted to board. Nickolas Muray Collection of Mexican Art, Harry Ransom Center, University of Texas. Austin, Texas.


	2. Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird

I walked toward her portrait, and, abruptly, I was in the painting with her. We were surrounded by green leaves, which blocked my view of everything but Frida and her pets. She took my hands, which startled me, and looked deep into my eyes, as if searching for something.

"You're a witch?" I breathed.

"I am. I am Frida."

"Yes, I know. My name's Pansy. If you're a witch, why are your paintings in Muggle museums?"

"You mean non-magical museums?" she asked.

I nodded.

She let go of my hands and gestured at her body. "I was in a terrible bus accident at age 18; my bus crashed into a trolley and a rail impaled my body. The accident shattered my spine and my pelvis, fractured my collarbone, shoulder, ribs, and foot." Her wounds started bleeding more heavily as she said this.

"I had 30 surgeries over my lifetime and lived much of my life in pain. That part of my story is well known. But the accident also shattered most of my magic, making it weak and inconsistent. I lived the rest of my life as a non-magical. My mother was not magical and didn't know my father was a wizard. I spent my childhood in non-magical schools, so the change wasn't as disagreeable as one might think.

"But when I died, my body and my magic were restored. I am whole now. I live in my paintings, but because they are in non-magical museums, it's rare that I encounter another magical being. I have watched you visit over the years and suspected you were a witch. But I didn't know for sure until you cried today and sent an aura of your magic out with your tears."

I had no idea what to say. I think I just stood there, gawking, until she took pity on me.

"Why were you crying, _pobrecita*_?"

I remember feeling slightly crazy, deciding whether to explain my parents' ultimatum, whether to tell a ghost in a painting how incredibly tired I was of Pure-blood expectations and traditions. But I did. Frida nodded in agreement throughout my story of woe. I was very self-involved back then. She never interrupted, she just listened.

Finally, when I had talked myself out, she spoke. "Your parents' expectations are not dissimilar to what was expected of women in my time. I fought against the cultural constraints on women throughout my life. I sometimes wore men's suits in photographs. I didn't shave the fuzz above my mouth or pluck in between my eyebrows. But, unlike you, I had my parents' support in pushing back against convention when I was a young adult.

"I believe I was what you would now call 'gender-fluid,' though I identified more as female than male. I was also what you would now call 'polyamorous.'** My husband Diego was both my biggest accident, second only to the bus crash, and also the love of my life, though we both had many lovers throughout our marriage. We didn't even live together for much of our marriage. I took both women and men. Diego, only women. He didn't mind my women lovers as much as my men.

"The version of me talking to you right now is from the time Diego and I divorced. I was miserable, in complete despair. He had an affair with my sister, and I couldn't take it anymore." She gave a dry laugh. "My favorite lover, Nickolas Muray, was overjoyed with our divorce. He thought we could finally get married. Of course, I remarried Diego a year later. Sadly, that ended my love affair with Nickolas, though we remained close friends until the end of my life."

I remember being dumbfounded by her story, my emotions bouncing around like ping pong balls. At first, I felt revulsion; her story was so different from the societal norms I grew up with. But I understood that she tried to live her life according to her own standards, rather than society's, and I respected that. I fully admit my respect was grudging at first.

"But come, let me show you something," Frida finished.

In a whirl of what felt somewhat like Portkey travel, I found myself in a different painting with her. Here, she was sitting in a wheelchair, holding a paint palette in her lap, next to a portrait of a man on an easel.

_Self-Portrait with the Portrait of Doctor Farill,_ 1944\. Frida Kahlo.  
Oil on canvas. Private collection.

She spoke to me from the chair. "Pansy, the bus accident I had at age 18 nearly killed me. I was in a full-body cast for three months. I had studied science up until then, planning to become a doctor. Once my body was shattered, I had to give up on that dream. I spent months miserable, crying, stuck in a cast, trying to come to terms with how my life would change because of this accident. Sometimes I wished I had died.

"I started painting while I was recovering, out of boredom. I had always loved sketching and art, but it was never my aspiration to become an artist. However, once I accepted what had happened to me and discovered how much I loved to create, I became fully immersed in the art world. It was my passion and my self-expression.

"This man," she gestured to the portrait on the easel next to her, "was one of my doctors. He performed seven surgeries on my spine when I was 44, nearly 30 years after my accident."

I noticed the palette she was holding looked like a two-dimensional human heart, which I found disgusting. I tried not to flinch. "Why are you showing me this?" I asked.

"Because your dreams are dying, changing. You will need to mourn that and accept it to move forward. I am showing you what I was able to do once I embraced what my future held for me."

I remember feeling anger toward her at the time. How dare she equate her life-altering accident to my parents' ultimatum? They weren't remotely similar situations, and mine was absolutely trivial compared to hers. I had my health, the ability to walk, to do whatever I wanted, for the most part. And Salazar's sack, I didn't need to mourn or accept anything! I would find a Pure-blood man I loved and get him to propose to me within the year. It was simple, really. I didn't need to change my course the way she had been forced to change hers.

She interrupted my angry musings. "I can see you don't agree with my thoughts. Just sit with it, _mija_.*** Hopefully this will bring you some peace as you move forward." She wheeled toward me and took my hand once again. "Goodbye, Pansy."

And like that, I was back on the bench in the middle of the gallery. No one seemed to notice that I had been gone and had suddenly reappeared. Maybe I had imagined it all, so caught up in my misery that I was hallucinating? I looked up at Frida's self-portrait, and she gave me a small smile. Nope, didn't imagine it. Well that was just grand, I thought; I'd gotten a lecture from a dead painter who cheated on her husband. I gave her a small smile in return and hightailed it out of there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Pobrecita" is a Spanish term of endearment meaning "poor little one."
> 
> ** My labels of gender-fluid and polyamorous are assumptions on my part, based on the (admittedly not exhaustive) research I've done on Kahlo's life. Many researchers have dug into her gender and sexuality, so there may be works that posit these assumptions, but I haven't seen them. Kahlo is most commonly labeled as bisexual because it's well known she had both men and women lovers. Also, I have no idea if her parents supported her in pushing against conventions of the time, but in my mind, her appearance in family portraits wearing a man's suit indicates perhaps they did.
> 
> ** "Mija" (pronounced mee-ha) is a Spanish term of endearment. It translates literally to "my daughter," however, it is frequently used as an endearment similar to "my child" when talking to any child or young adult.


	3. Choosing Sides

I spent the next nine months in complete self-delusion. I started dating Neville Longbottom, of all people. He had grown up to be quite attractive, and he was confident, sweet, and intelligent. I convinced myself after a month of dating that he was the one. He would be a dedicated and faithful husband, and his sincerity would keep me honest and in line.

He wouldn't have been my first choice for a husband, if I'd had more time to choose. But I thought I'd be happier with him than an arranged marriage to some unknown Frenchman or any of the other Pure-blood bigots I seemed to attract. Daphne had little patience with me during that phase of my life. I neglected our friendship in favor of the growing romance I convinced myself I had with Neville. And all the while, Daphne knew I was simply deceiving myself, and doing so to the detriment of our friendship.

Three months from my 24th birthday, I started to panic. I hadn't told Neville about my parents' ultimatum—I wasn't going to drive him away with that kind of pressure—but I also needed him to propose quickly, or I'd be stuck with Jean-Francois or whatever his name was.

I freaked out one night in our apartment, and, finally, Daphne lost it with me. "Either way, you're throwing your life away, Pansy!" she yelled. "Whether it's with Neville or with a French wizard you've never met, it's not what you want! Why are you letting your parents dictate the rest of your life for you?"

I remember wanting to spit back in her face, "How do _you_ know what I want?" But I couldn't, because, of course, she knew what I wanted. Before this whole foolish relationship with Neville, I'd told her over and over again that I wanted to make my own choices and not have them forced on me. Thankfully, I possessed a modicum of decency by that point in my life, and instead of yelling back at her, I stormed off to my room. I was very proud of myself at the time for not saying something hurtful to her.

I went to the Tate the next day. I didn't consciously go back to visit Frida. But I landed on the bench in front of her painting again. This time I was too depressed to cry. I just sat there, probably looking very forlorn and sorry for myself, if anyone else had paid any attention.

After several minutes, she spoke to me from her painting. "Much of my life was dedicated toward the success of our new society after the Mexican Revolution. I suppose you know little about it, growing up in England?"

I looked around, still shocked that no one else in the gallery could hear her. Embarrassed by my lack of knowledge, I shook my head in response while I approached her. Finding myself inside the painting with her once more, I replied, "I don't know anything about your revolution. I've learned little of Muggle history or culture—and most of that, I've learned here, at the Tate."

"Well," she replied, looking sage—or, at least, she looked sage to me at the time. Though looking back, she was on the wrong side of history, supporting Marxism as a solution to the world's suffering. Just like I was on the wrong side of our wizarding war—except, of course, my side wanted to increase suffering, not lessen it.

I know I keep going off on tangents, but it's important to me to convey my thoughts. I suppose the self-absorption of my early twenties still sometimes rears its ugly head. Get used to it, darlings. What you see is what you get these days; I'm not apologizing for myself anymore.

Looking sage, Frida said, "Come with me. I will bring you into another painting. It may give you some things to think about regarding your Pure-blood traditions." She grabbed my hand, and we were immediately in the middle of a Surrealist landscape. See, I know what Surrealism is now! All those years visiting the Tate taught me _something_ about Muggle history; or at least, their history as it was portrayed through the eyes of the artists who lived through it.

Being in her new painting felt a bit like being permanently stuck in the middle of floo travel or Apparition. Nothing felt grounded or real: giant hands hung in the air, larger than our bodies, along with a giant half-eagle half-Uncle Sam figure, a giant dove, and ground that seemed to bleed beneath our feet, along with a floating Earth, a floating nuclear bomb, and a disembodied head she told me was Karl Marx. It was incredibly disconcerting.

_Marxism Will Give Health to the Ill,_ 1954\. Frida Kahlo.  
Oil on masonite. Museo Frida Kahlo. Coyoacán, Mexico City.

"What is this?" I asked, trying not to panic.

Frida, who was now dressed in a stiff corset to support her broken spine, gave me a vague answer. "I was a child during the Mexican Revolution. My people overthrew the dictatorship that suppressed our land, and we established a constitutional republic. I was very active politically in the new republic. Everyone was guaranteed basic human rights, such as access to economic opportunity and education. My country acknowledged our full cultural heritage — our indigenous ancestry and our colonial history. This is somewhat like your recent war, yes? Granting all wizards equal rights?"

"How do you know about our war?"

"I talk with other magical portraits. I have been aware of your war for many years. This painting we are in, this shows a political movement I believed in, saving people from the horrors of capitalism and greed. God is in our hands."

The giant hands continued to move through the air around us. I knew Muggles believed in a deity they called God. Kind of like wizards revering Merlin, except Merlin was a real wizard, and the Muggle God was… well, I didn't really know what it was, and honestly, I still don't. A man sitting in the sky, in a heaven of eternal happiness? A force of goodness and creation that's not human nor gendered? Love?

Regardless, the giant hands that threatened to crush me were Frida's embodiment of her God. And though I worried for my safety as they wandered through the air around us, she said they were her salvation. One hand was strangling the half eagle. "Death to capitalism," she called it.

She told me her painting represented giving up old biased ways and embracing a new future where everyone was equal. In that future, she was able to give up her crutches, escape the stiff corset holding her spine together, and see a verdant and abundant landscape that provided for all people. This, she told me, is what our wizarding society in Britain had fought a war to achieve. But those of us still clinging to Pure-blood culture were like Uncle Sam, perpetuating misery and inequality. Throwing off the constraints of my culture while still embracing my heritage, she explained, is what I desired while I sat there in sorrow over a future I did not want, one that my parents were dictating for me.

Strange, I thought, that her painting showed the Soviets with a white dove of peace and prosperity and the Americans with a nuclear bomb and blood running on the land. The latter had come to pass, but the former never had. I knew enough of Muggle history to know that. And in 2003, America certainly had a better living situation for most Muggles than Russia. But again, I digress. World politics had little to do with my current trifling situation of whether I would be forced to marry a man my parents chose for me or forced to settle for a man I chose for myself but did not love.

"Do you understand why I have brought you to this painting?" Frida asked.

I remember thinking, "No! Let me out of this surrealist hell!" But instead, I shook my head, still awestruck at the bizarre landscape around me.

"You must have courage, Pansy. Courage to renounce the culture you've grown up in, a culture that leads to tears and bloodshed and to your own prison. Have the strength to embrace the half of this world that leads to peace and equality."

I didn't know if I was ready to turn my back on everything I had grown up believing in.


	4. The Broken Column

I spent the next several days in a terrible state. The only thing that kept me calm was designing new fashions for Madame Malkin's shop, where I could get lost in a creative flow doing something I loved. I had always enjoyed fashion but hadn't realized I had a flair for design until I started working for Madame Malkin. Under her tutelage, my creative skills flourished. My design work was one of the few places in my life where I felt accomplished and proud of my achievements, and where I could quiet the voices in my head telling me I wasn't "enough." My parents thought my job was trite, but I loved it.

After Daphne yelled at me, we spent the next few days not speaking to each other. I was too ashamed and too lost to figure out what to say to her. By the end of the week, I broke up with Neville. I knew Daphne was right. If I stayed with him, I would be settling, which wouldn't be fair to Neville or to me.

My 24th birthday arrived, and I was in a complete panic. I had agreed to a birthday dinner with my parents, but I decided I couldn't face them. I lied and said I was sick. Actually, I had Daphne lie for me, saying I was too sick to even come to the floo.

They sent an owl with a thick packet the next day. They wished me a speedy recovery and enclosed the marriage contract with Jean-Jacques whoever. I can never recall his poncy French name. I remember seeing the marriage contract and going slightly catatonic. It arrived while Daphne and I were eating breakfast together. She knew what it was, and she made to comfort me, but I shrugged her off and left.

I walked aimlessly around London for hours. Thank Merlin it was one of my days off. I made my way to the Tate, again. I avoided Frida's gallery. I sat in front of Ana Mendieta's _Self-Portrait with Blood_ for ages. Sometimes I stared at her blood-covered face, thinking of nothing but the photograph in front of me. Other times I stared at the photo absently, completely absorbed in my own thoughts.

Ultimately, I knew I couldn't marry someone I'd never met. My parents had given me plenty of opportunities to meet the Frenchman over the past year, but I had turned them all down, convinced Neville was my future. Turning from the bloody portrait, I paced further through the museum.

My choices were clear. Marry Jean-Paul and retain my family, my inheritance, and my place in the uppermost class of wizarding England. Refuse to marry Jean-Paul and lose my relationship with my parents, my inheritance, and likely my place in British Pure-blood society.

Could I make the choice I knew I needed to make? Could I support myself on my own, without money from my family? Could I handle being permanently estranged from my parents? I, of course, ended up back in front of Frida.

She blinked at me, and I walked toward her, entering her painting once again. She took my hand and we ended up in a vast green landscape riddled with ravines, a stormy blue sky overhead. Frida was naked before me, her hair long and a white sheet flapping in the wind around her lower half. At first, I averted my eyes, but she grabbed my chin and forced me to face her.

_The Broken Column,_ 1944\. Frida Kahlo.  
Oil on masonite. Museo Dolores Olmedo. Xochimilco, Mexico City.

"Look at me, Pansy," she directed gently. "What do you see?"

I tried to look away, the pain in front of me too much to visibly bear, but she held my chin firmly, refusing to let me turn from her.

"I see nails all over your body. A broken column in place of your spine. Is that a surgical harness to keep your torso from moving?" She nodded. "I see tears on your face. And your naked body. Your breasts. Merlin, your breasts are beautiful." I remember being mortified when that popped out of my mouth, and I ripped out of her grip and turned away. She was clearly in pain all over, given the dozens of nails in her skin, and I was admiring her breasts.

"I can no longer feel this now, Pansy. Portraits don't have physical sensations. I painted this to juxtapose my exterior appearance, which seemed to be beautiful and free, with my interior experience, which was nothing but pain and brokenness at that point in my life."

Her white sheet flapped in the wind, settling on the ground, showing me the lower half of her naked body. Her right leg was noticeably thinner and slightly shorter than her left, and several of her toes were deformed. Now I understood why she usually hid her legs in long dresses.

She noticed my gaze and gave me a wry smile. "That is the effect of suffering from polio in my childhood."

"Your father couldn't cure it with potions?"

"He didn't know potions or healing. He was born to non-magical parents and never obtained a magical education, and he hid his magic from my mother and half-sisters, who weren't magical. Come, walk with me."

She took my hand, and we walked under the stormy sky that perpetually threatened rain that would never fall—being stuck in the painting and all. "You're feeling split in two, yes?" she asked.

My voice caught in my throat, and I remember croaking out, "Yes."

"Sometimes you have to go through pain, Pansy. Out of my pain came this beautiful portrait. You know what you need to do. My spine is broken, this column is cracked. But still, I am able to walk with you, to show beauty, and kindness, and strength. You will make it through this, even if it means breaking in two for a while."

She turned, and this time she gave me a kiss before I arrived back on my bench in the gallery. I felt the softness of her lips against my own for the rest of the day. When panic threatened to overtake me at the thought of confronting my parents, I remembered the feel of her lips on mine and the feel of my hand in hers.

I only had to be strong enough to say what I needed to say to my parents. I didn't have to be strong enough to act like rejecting their wishes didn't affect me. If Frida could show the world her broken back, her skin pierced with nails, her body vulnerable and naked, I could show my authentic self to my parents. And, I thought spitefully, my parents might feel some remorse when they saw how broken their daughter felt because of their demands. Though I knew it wouldn't change their minds.


	5. Moving Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Kahlo's graphic painting of one of her miscarriages is shown, and she discusses her sadness over the miscarriage. If you don't want to read this, stop reading when Pansy goes back to London after Milan, and move on to the next chapter.

I'm just going to skip the next several months of my life. They were awful. Talking to my parents was as bad as I expected it to be, and sadly, we're still estranged. I've been through a lot of Muggle therapy over that.

When I finally emerged from months of depression and barely making it through each day, I was about 15 pounds lighter—which is a lot for my 162-centimeter frame. That's five foot four, for you English system users. Funny, isn't it? Americans use the English system, while the English use the metric system… But I'm getting off point.

Once I was semi-functional again, I threw myself into my work. My fashion designs brought a new wave of younger customers into Madame Malkin's, which boosted her revenue. By my 25th birthday, my designs were so profitable, she made me head designer and offered me partial ownership in her business. 

I was thrilled with her offer. Living on a working salary, without the extra allowance from the Parkinson Estate each month, had put a damper on my standard of living. Part ownership would boost my income, and perhaps allow me to start going on vacations with my friends again, which I had turned down over the past year because I couldn't afford it. Let me tell you, adhering to a budget really stinks.

Daphne had offered to pay my way for the first few trips after my parents cut me off, but I turned her down; I needed to make my own way. She finally stopped offering and just stayed home with me over New Year's to keep me company, while the rest of our friends went to the Swiss Alps. I don't know what I did to deserve her friendship, but I'm grateful for it every day.

Curbing my spending was worth it, though, to live my life on my own terms rather than some predetermined path. I did go back to the Tate that winter to thank Frida. She seemed gratified.

I started traveling to Milan every few months, to see current trends in fashion and bring variations on them back to England. Those were good years. Fun years. I dated a lot. I never started a serious relationship during that time, but I had a lot of amazing sex. You would not believe what Italian men are like in bed. Seriously. The term Italian Stallion exists for a reason, ladies and gentlepeople.

After a year of going to Milan's fashion district, I decided to build my own company. Running a fashion business would be a huge step down from the level of wealth and privilege families like mine held in the magical world, and I felt a bit embarrassed at wanting to do something so pedestrian. But, I figured I was already many steps down from that, working for someone else and owning a quarter of a business; I really had nowhere to go but up.

I solidified my personal connections with influential fashion moguls in Milan, preparing for the launch of my own company by the end of 2007. It was a fantastic year, full of hope and anticipation. Until it wasn't. I needed two or three investors to make the production line of my business a reality. I pitched my plans to all of my contacts during a late summer visit to Milan, but I only got one investor, which wasn't enough.

I was heartbroken, and I dragged my sorry arse home to London, feeling like a complete failure. After several weeks of numbly slogging through my days, I went back to the Tate. This time, I went straight to Frida, gave her a quick hello, and walked right into her painting.

I poured my heart out to her. All my insecurities, my feelings of failure, my dashed dreams for my business. I admit I was a bit melodramatic. Do you know how many times the average entrepreneur fails before final success? Four. Four! I didn't know that at the time, though.

When I finished, Frida smiled at me, a smile full of both encouragement and sadness. "I am going to take you to one of the worst periods of my life, _mija_. I must warn you that what you will see is disturbing. The depiction of me that will be speaking to you is in severe emotional distress. But I am no longer that anguished woman. I moved past it, and that is what I want you to take away from this."

She took my hand and pulled me into another Surrealist setting. My first thought was, "No floating hands this time, thank Merlin!" That thought was rapidly replaced with horror at what was floating around me instead, and I screamed when I saw Frida lying naked and bloody on a bed before me.

_Henry Ford Hospital,_ 1932\. Frida Kahlo.  
Oil on metal. Museo Dolores Olmedo. Xochimilco, Mexico City.

I remember breathing deeply, trying to calm myself, as she spoke to me from the bed. "Pansy, remember that I am not hurting now. We are in a depiction of an event in my life from long ago." She gestured to the floating object immediately above her: a dead fetus. "I had a life-threatening miscarriage when I was 25 years old.* This was my second of three miscarriages. I'm on a hospital bed, recovering from a caesarean section the doctors performed to save my life."

She was silent for a moment, gazing at the objects floating around her: a snail, a model of a human spine and pelvis on a stand, some kind of machine I didn't recognize, a purple orchid, pelvic bones, and of course, the dead fetus. Each object was attached to her by long, red umbilical cords, floating gently in the air like balloon strings on a summer day. Except, they were _umbilical cords_. It still makes me shiver to think of it.

She looked sad, yet resigned and hopeful at the same time. "I wanted to be a mother. But the bus accident made it impossible for me to carry a baby to full term. I was sad that I never had a child, never had a little one running around to make me happy. But my life was plagued by poor health and a tumultuous marriage; in the end, it was probably for the better that I never had a child."

For the life of me, I couldn't understand how the sickening scene we were in was remotely relevant to my own situation of woe—which, once again, felt inconsequential compared to Frida's ordeal.

As if reading my mind, she said, "You don't see how my experience of suffering a miscarriage relates to you, do you?"

I shook my head, trying to push back the bile rising in my throat as her blood continued to stain the mattress below her. She looked so pitiful and helpless, and in so much distress.

"I moved past this, Pansy. I experienced much agony in my life, but also much fulfillment. We can have our hopes and dreams dashed, _mija_ , and still create meaning and happiness after it." She reached out to me from her bed, drawing me closer. "My body was incapable of carrying a baby, but you… there is nothing stopping you from continuing to pursue your dreams. Nothing other than the things you tell yourself."

I nodded and managed to squeak out, "Thank you," before asking, "Can we leave?" My gut clenched in shame for asking, like I was minimizing the anguish of her experience, but I couldn't bear the sight of her bloodied bed and the dead fetus floating above us any longer.

She squeezed my hand, and I arrived back on my bench in the gallery. She bid me goodbye from her portrait. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you so, _mija_. Sit with it, and come visit me again when you have moved on."

* * *

 _*_ _Some sources say her second miscarriage occurred spontaneously. Other sources say she attempted an abortion for several reasons (she and Diego were living in the U.S. at the time, possibly Diego didn't want a child, and Frida feared for her health if she tried to carry a baby to full term), but that the abortion failed and resulted in the miscarriage._


	6. Two Nudes in a Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped the last half of Chapter 5 because of the miscarriage scene, here's a summary of what you missed. Pansy went to the Tate and poured her heart out to Frida about her insecurities, feelings of failure, and sadness about her unsuccessful business pitch. Frida took Pansy into another painting, depicting an anguishing time in her life, and she pointed out that she was still able to move forward and create meaning and happiness afterward.

I went home, on edge after the disturbing experience of Frida's miscarriage, and I started designing some new clothing pieces. I needed to lose myself in my creativity and not think about business planning, or failure, or dead fetuses. Daphne came home and found me surrounded by parchment at the dining table, transfigured clothing items hovering around me.

"What's this?" she asked, laughing at my mess; I never worked from home.

"New clothes. I needed to clear my mind. Here, let me try some on you, to see how they look."

She seemed excited. I had never used her as a model before. I have no idea why not. She was beautiful, and she was taller and rounder than me, with thick thighs, an ample bosom, and some padding on her waist and arms. She was a perfect model to see how my clothes would fit an average-sized woman.

She came over behind my chair and kissed the top of my head. "I'm happy to see you feeling better, Pans. You've been so sad and distant lately."

I knew it hurt her when I withdrew from her and retreated into myself, but I had never been good at sharing my insecurities with anyone. Vulnerability is hard, my dears. I stood and gave her a hug, a silent thanks for sticking by me. I wasn't the easiest person to live with.

"Strip!" I said. "I want you to try this one on!" I grabbed a dress with a square neckline I thought would look good with her cleavage and a godet bottom that would look beautiful draped around her curvy thighs. I started tugging her clothes off her while she tried to bat my hands away, laughing at me. I tend to get a little overly enthusiastic when I'm fixated on something.

We got her into the dress, and after a few adjustments to the cut and the length, and a transformation to a thicker fabric that draped better, I was convinced I had designed a bestseller. I dragged her to the mirror to see herself. "You look gorgeous!" I told her.

She turned to me, her face lit up from my words. "You really think so, Pans?"

"I know so, Daph." I leaned forward to dismantle her updo, transforming her hair into gentle blonde waves that flowed across her shoulder and back. "There!" I said. "You look beautiful with your hair framing your face. It brings out your blue eyes. You should wear it like this more often!"

She didn't respond, she just stood gazing at me with a goofy smile on her face and, I sensed, a little bit of nerves? I tilted my head, silently asking her what she was doing, and she startled, laughing and waving me off.

Deciding a small clip would look nice in her hair, I summoned a jeweled one from my room and pulled a few waves of her hair into it on the side, just past her temple. Our faces were close while I fastened the clip. I heard her breath hitch and then felt her exhale softly against my cheek. Her exhale seemed to travel straight to my stomach and stir up butterflies there.

At the time, I refused to acknowledge what was happening, but I found myself growing closer to her physically over the course of that fall and winter. I don't mean that we were in a physical relationship, though you can probably guess that's where things were heading. I was clueless, though. Deep down, I knew that I wanted her, but desiring a woman was outside the realm of acceptability in my upbringing.

We started to spend more nights in than out, reading together or watching telly on the sofa. Yes, we had a Muggle telly. I usually lay with my head in her lap and she would play with my hair. I convinced myself it was platonic.

And when we were in the bathroom in our underwear, I couldn't stop myself from staring at her body, at the gentle curve of her breasts and the way her lacy knickers clung to her bum. We had shared that bathroom for years, and I had never noticed her body this way before. I told myself it was because I was now using her as a model for my clothing designs.

But when she helped me fit and detail my fashions, I secretly reveled in cladding her nude form with _my_ creations. I even started designing bras and knickers just so I could see her in them, though of course I lied to myself about what I was doing; I was merely expanding our house-designed collections at Madame Malkin's. Daphne was very patient with me.

By late winter, I had reworked my business plan and my portfolio. With Daphne as my model, the resulting fit and cut of my designs were better suited to our customers at Madame Malkin's than my prior collections had been. In fact, Daphne made such a good prototype that I asked her to come to Milan with me to pitch my revised business plan to potential investors.

You'll laugh when I tell you what finally burst my little bubble of self-delusion: booking our hotel room. Why, you ask? The hotel concierge asked me if I wanted to reserve a room with one bed or two. Two would have been appropriate for platonic friends. Yet, I realized I desperately wanted one. One bed. That's what I wanted. I was so shocked with myself that I hung up on the man.

And then, because I continued to be a complete and utter idiot, I hid out in my room that night, avoiding Daphne. What if she didn't feel the same way? I went to the Tate the next day to visit my ghostly painter friend.

"Frida," I announced. "I need some help." I stepped forward into her painting and stood there anxiously wringing my hands.

"You are not upset this time, _mi pobrecita_. You are… nervous?"

Nodding and biting my lip, I asked her to tell me about her women lovers. When did she realize she was attracted to both women and men? How did she know if other women reciprocated her interest? How did one go from friends to lovers with another woman?

Her face softened in understanding at my questions, and she pulled me through the green leaves and into a jungle-like setting.

_Two Nudes in a Forest,_ 1939\. Frida Kahlo.  
Oil on metal. Private collection.*

Here, two versions of Frida were naked on the ground before me, though neither of them looked exactly like her. One version of Frida sat with a red blanket draped across her back, her skin darker than in her other self-portraits. The other version of Frida lay in the sitting woman's lap, her skin much lighter.

"My mother was half-Mexican, half-Indian," said the dark-skinned one.

"And my father was European," said the light-skinned one. "Some people believe I am not Frida, but rather my lover, the actress Dolores Del Rio, to whom I gifted this painting. I suppose I had both my mixed heritage and my lover on my mind as I painted this. It doesn't matter. I have many identities, and they are all a part of me. They have been studied and expounded upon by countless people since my death."

"But we all have many identities, don't we, _mija_?" the dark-skinned Frida asked me. "Our world tries to categorize people and things, to make them known, understandable. But can we really categorize people so simply? I am not European, nor indigenous. I am both. I am not heterosexual, nor homosexual. I am both. I am not a student, nor a teacher. I am both."

"I have come to realize, however, since my death," light-skinned Frida said, "that there is no true 'duality' to the categories we try to assign to people. We all exist on a spectrum; duality is not reality."

Dark-skinned Frida said, "I didn't fully realize during my lifetime, though, that even duality is an illusion. In one of my most famous paintings, I portrayed two different versions of me, sitting side by side and holding hands. I called it _[The Two Fridas](https://www.fridakahlo.org/the-two-fridas.jsp)_. One Frida was strong and independent, with a healthy, beating heart. The other Frida was a traditional, dependent wife, with a broken heart bleeding onto my skirt, because my beloved husband Diego betrayed me."

Light-skinned Frida interrupted, a mischievous glint in her eye. "But I broke my own heart in that painting. I used my own hand to cut my blood vessels with scissors. I did not let Diego have that power over me. I chose my broken-heartedness."

Dark-skinned Frida rolled her eyes at light-skinned Frida. I know, darlings, the eye-rolling was weird. But it happened. "Sometimes I tell myself what I want to believe. We all do, don't we, Pansy?"

She sat, and lay, there—two Fridas looking at me expectantly. It sounded like a theoretical question, but she seemed to want an answer. That really wasn't how this was supposed to work, I thought petulantly. She was supposed to give me some life-changing nugget of wisdom that would tell me it was okay to let Daphne know how I felt. While I tried to figure out how to respond, I realized she'd been giving me answers throughout this bizarre conversation.

"Yes, we do tell ourselves what we want to believe," I said. "It's just that, sometimes, different parts of ourselves want to believe different things." Some outer perimeter of me still wanted to fulfill my parents' expectations, still believed maybe they would accept me someday. But the version of me that felt most authentic? That version found joy in my work, in making women feel beautiful in their clothes; and in being with Daphne, my best friend and, hopefully soon, lover.

"Thank you, Frida," I breathed. "I think I understand what you're saying, and I think I need to go now."

She nodded, and both versions of her reached their hands out to me. I took one of each and swiftly returned to my bench in the gallery. I gave her portrait a quick thank you, then ran out of the museum, intent on seeing Daphne as soon as I could.

To make a long story short, we booked a hotel room in Milan with one bed, and our work trip turned into the most fulfilling, and sensual, vacation I'd ever had up to that point in my life. I'd never ride another Italian Stallion again, and I couldn't have been happier about it. My second business pitch failed, which took some of the wind from my sails at the end of the trip, but having Daphne by my side made it easier to handle.

We married at the end of 2008. My parents didn't come to our wedding, and it hurt. But the Greengrasses have become my surrogate parents. That winter, Daphne helped me rehaul my business plan, and my third pitch attracted the investors I needed. Daphne's still my prototype for all my designs, and every time I get to clothe and unclothe my beautiful wife in my creations, I thank Merlin that she was patient enough to wait on me all those years.

Frida once said, "Fall in love with yourself, with life, and then with whoever you want." I think I'm doing it backward, but when I need help finding the good in myself and my life, I still visit Frida's portrait, and she indulges me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Two Nudes in a Forest sold at a Christie's auction in May 2016 for $8 million, which was the highest price ever received at auction by any Latin American artist, male or female, at the time. (Her husband, Diego Rivera, surpassed this price at auction in 2018; nonetheless, the 2016 sale of Two Nudes in a Forest highlights how far women have come since Kahlo's lifetime.) 
> 
> ** If you want to see a really beautiful photograph of Kahlo sitting in front of a partially completed version of The Two Fridas, check out [this photograph](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/30/a7/bb/30a7bb5748f7bdf8850eb6305f48d41b--las-dos-fridas-old-photos.jpg). Wow, just wow!
> 
> THANK YOU to my amazing alphabet team who helped make this story a reality: [canttouchthis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canttouchthis/pseuds/Canttouchthis) and [meditationsinemergencies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meditationsinemergencies/pseuds/meditationsinemergencies), for previewing the story and confirming it was worth writing, and for alpha and beta reading the entire story--I so appreciate your time and help!--and to [Astrangefan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrangefan/pseuds/Astrangefan) and [Eozmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EozMoon/pseuds/EozMoon) for previewing the story, providing feedback, and also confirming that this story was, in fact, worth writing!


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